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Oh it must be rumbled the rosy rouse!
Of this devil’s pale sky mask,
Smiling, yet stood accused,
Of selling the hopeful hip flask’s
Sober secret.

Fuck you.
Your plastic poise promises –
That which it can’t deliver
A silver sea that withers,
swimming in silver quivers.
A solvent that can’t seal seams, seeming
To aspire to be heard not seen –
In a plastic crown, this crumbled queen,
Is blinded by the painless peel of your paint,
Of your bought beauty beyond taint!

Pretence is your husband’s name,
A marriage of shame, his pearls detained.
He dances like a jester in your bland monarchy,
And kisses the pearls that choke mediocrity,
Of all the powdered poofs he is the most pretty!
A blade of green in your grey-scale city.

Oh but still you request he returns,
To put on ice this passion that burns
And put his silly dreams to bed
Blushing quirks, more thought than said.

Against the grain this slight return –
Alights here, for a station in the dark.
Your voice raises cause for concern,
Dripping false from a question mark.
Have a quiet word with silent applause,
You’ll hear no concern left for your cause.

© Sean Macro 2012